


Vicimus

by godsdaisiechain (preux)



Series: Warriors [3]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Education, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, On the Run, fleeing, virgil - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 16:26:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8453476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preux/pseuds/godsdaisiechain
Summary: “That will be us one day,” said Anthony.  Carl stopped moving, looked up at Anthony. "Veni vidi vici."Carl Elias became known for writing "veni, vidi, vici," on messages.  A possible explanation why.For the Fan Flashworks "Honor" challenge.





	1. Bad Trouble

Anthony had something in mind when they fled New York after Moretti tried to kill Carl. He and Elias ran off to the college town near where Bruce was studying for the year.  Some type of visitor thing. A good way to meet the sorts of rich people who’d come in handy to know one day as long as you remembered that they were not at all like you. 

Carl was the smart one, but he’d taken night school classes because he refused to leave Anthony behind, insisted on learning the business from the ground up.  Anthony had gone the trade route, kept to the shadows, out of sight, not working too regularly with any one group.  No one would miss him for days. And in their line of work, after a few days, they assumed you were dead anyway.

Anthony changed the numbers on the license plates of a stolen car with electrical tape and then splattered them with mud.  “I can do that,” said Carl.

 “I don’t want your hand getting infected,” said Anthony.  “Sit in the back. I’ll drive.”  But Carl sat in the front. They didn’t say very much, but from time to time, Anthony rested a hand on Carl’s thigh as he drove, as if to reassure himself that his friend was still there beside him.

Carl was equal parts amused and dismayed that what Anthony had had in mind—after washing his hands, then smearing Carl’s wounds with Vaseline and bandaging them up (and finding a turtleneck to cover the marks on his neck)—was fishing.  A city kid, he’d always wanted to catch a fish and cook it over a fire in a cast-iron pan, the way they had on the old black-and-white _Mickey Mouse Club_ “Triple-R” camp show.

“I think we need a fishing license,” Carl said.  Anthony tilted his head in that way that could say any number of things, but in this case meant _I don’t think we’ll actually catch anything._ Carl tilted his own head. It wouldn’t do to get arrested for something so silly.

As it turned out, Anthony had a license for fishing off the piers, which he showed at a small store where they found motor oil, bait and tackle, plaid flannel shirts. Next door was a diner with surprisingly good homemade pie.  The best pie either one had ever eaten.  The waitress, flattered by their sincere and fulsome praise of the cooking, told them where the tourists could fish without upsetting the locals. They found a fishing stream and huddled, shivering, over a small fire.  Looking into each other’s eyes, not saying very much in words, but communicating volumes nevertheless. They missed a bite or two on the fishing line, then went to call Bruce.  He told them to wait, that he would pick them up.

They had to ditch the stolen car, but Bruce found them a junker one of his friends had no need of any longer. The back seat held a mass of cast off clothes, a battered leather jacket, a sweatshirt with the name of the college emblazoned on the front, books and papers.  “These rich kids.  It’s amazing what they throw out.”  

“What do we owe you?” Anthony asked.  Bruce snorted. 

“Nothing. It’s no bother. So, why are you here?” Anthony and Carl exchanged glances.  Bruce had always been a little slower to notice things, needing to have information stated more plainly.  Between that and the Irish name, it made him the natural to go the college route, become the more legitimate one. “You can stay in my room for a couple of days, but don’t wander or they’ll find you.” He meant the dorm monitors. Anthony blinked, and Bruce’s face went grey.  “You’re in trouble. Bad trouble.”

“Yes, we are in trouble,” Carl said.  “Bad trouble.”

“Ok,” said Bruce.  They went for beers and burgers in bar full of dark wood and dusty knick knacks nailed to the wall.  Bruce worked there at the weekends, tending bar and quietly selling pot on the side, and his boss fed them for free.  While they laughed and joked around, Bruce made a list of schools large enough to get lost in on a sheet of loose leaf paper.  Anthony didn’t say much about that, even with his eyes. The others let him be, until Anthony let his knee rest against Carl’s thigh.  Bruce’s smile faltered when Carl’s eyes flicked toward Anthony’s face.

“We’d better get going,” Carl said, once they had finished eating. They wandered to the parking lot, Bruce and Carl in front, Anthony bringing up the rear.

Bruce tried to insist on them staying.  He missed the city and their company, but Anthony said, “No. It’s not safe,” and Bruce nodded. 

“You’re right. This is the first place they would look if they knew about me,” Bruce said, then paused under a light.  “But they don’t know about me. What happened to your hand?”  He picked up Carl’s hand, slowly pieced together for himself the few clues that revealed the only object that could have made that particular mark across a person’s palm.  “What…” 

“Moretti,” Anthony bit out.  

“Damn,” said Bruce.  “Damn.”

“He’ll pay,” Anthony said.

Carl nudged Anthony’s elbow. “You told me not to go, but I was fooled. I thought he was a man of honor. And I’m supposed to be the smart one,” said Carl.  Anthony shot him a look, while Bruce handed them all the cash he had on him. 

“You two be safe,” said Bruce.  “I love you.”  They wrapped each other in a hug, and Bruce went back toward the bar.  “I’ll bum a ride.”  He turned.  “You two keep to the shadows.  Until we’re stronger. Men of honor.”

“We will,” said Carl.  Bruce nodded.  There were no more words.


	2. Beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carl wanders in while Anthony is in getting into the shower.

Anthony kept a hand on Carl’s back until he got into the car, then seated himself and watched Carl settle in the front seat, waiting for him to click his seat belt in place before starting the engine.  “We’ll drive the long way.  Pick up a train back….” Carl said. Anthony tilted his head. “No?” 

“No,” said Anthony.  “You have some thinking to do.  I’ve never seen....” He pulled out a map with places circled in red ink.  Montreal.  Boston. He had never been to any of them. Neither had Carl.  In their line of work, leaving the city meant you had a body in the trunk that needed disposing of or a pile of drugs or guns that needed selling.  They might not have another chance like this for a long while. Not men like them. “Maybe it will help us think better. No one will miss us.”

“All right,” said Carl.  Anthony had a few hundred dollars and Bruce had given them almost as much more.  They headed north. It was too cold to sleep in the car, so they stayed at a cheap motel with a sign featuring a beaver that claimed to have a color tv.  Carl spoke to the manager because people would remember Anthony’s scar.  No one ever remembered him.

  
“You want the shower first?” Anthony asked, but Carl wanted to look at a book he’d found in the car. Virgil. English on one side, Latin on the other, with notes explaining the translation.  He’d never seen anything like it.  You could teach yourself a language with books like that.  
  
In the bathroom, Anthony got undressed, brushed the dirt off his clothes and hung them up neatly. He left a gun and a few knives on the side of the sink while he ran the water in the shower to get it hot.  The door squeaked and Carl was there, mouth open, watching Anthony’s sudden erection unfurl.  
  
“Sorry,” said Carl, startled, flexing his injured hand, which had opened up and started to bleed again. “I wanted the Vaseline. I thought you were behind the curtain.” Anthony, meanwhile, tried to cover himself with both hands.  Carl’s voice softened. “You’re so beautiful, Anthony,” he said. “There’s no need to hide.  Not from me.” Anthony didn’t say anything. “Let me help you with that?”  Anthony tilted his head. “Or I could just wash your back.”  
  
Anthony’s lips parted as Carl took the one step into the cramped space, but it was he who smoothed Vaseline over the wounded palm and helped Carl get undressed. “You’d get blood on yourself.”  
  
“Thank you,” Carl said trailing fingers down Anthony’s arms, along his chin and over a hip, while Anthony worked at unfastening buttons and belt.  Carl leaned on his friend to lift his feet from his jeans. As Anthony straightened up, their eyes met, then their lips.  Anthony wrapped an arm around Carl’s waist, pulled him close, and when he let go, Carl latched onto him for support.  
  
“I ain’t never,” Anthony said, as he took Carl’s elbow to help him over the side of the tub.  
  
“Me, neither,” said Carl. “But I have faith that we can figure it out.”  Anthony laughed.  
  
“Let’s take our time,” said Anthony. The hot water gave out before they had quite finished washing each other’s backs, so they scampered to a bed. Anthony brought Carl off with a hand and then asked him to squeeze his thighs together. “It’s a good thing we needed that Vaseline.”  
  
“How did you know what to do?” Carl wanted to know. Anthony pulled out another book, with pictures, from ancient Greece.   
  
“That was some car,” said Anthony. “Maybe I am the college type after all.”  
  
“Let me try that?” said Carl.  
  
“I’d like that,” said Anthony. “You don’t really need to ask.”  
  
“But it’s polite, mi amore,” said Carl. Anthony colored and looked down, then closed his mouth over Carl’s hungrily.  They rutted against each other and collapsed, smothering their cries against each others’ shoulders because, by an unspoken agreement, they didn't want to be overheard.  They lay, chests heaving.  
  
“I’d still like to try,” said Carl.  
  
“Certainly, mi amore,” said Anthony.  
  
Afterward, they settled into the other bed and Anthony let Carl show him the new book.  “Like Caesar?  Veni Vidi Vici?” Anthony held the book and listened while Carl explained.  It was how they’d done their homework, Carl talking his way through a subject or problem.  Bruce would chime in, but Anthony usually just listened unless they were alone.  
  
“That will be us one day,” said Anthony.  Carl stopped moving, looked up at Anthony. "Veni vidi vici."  
  
“You’re serious.”  
  
“Deadly serious,” said Anthony. “They’re not getting away with this.”  
  
“Fair enough, but it’s ‘venimus, vedimus, vicimus’ for two people,” said Carl, consulting a ratty grammar cheat sheet that had been taped in the back cover of the book.  
  
“Nah,” said Anthony. “That doesn’t sound right. We’ll pretend it’s just you.  They won’t take Bruce serious.  Or me. But you. Moretti’s son. Smarter than that other one.  That’s why he tried to kill you.  We’ll take everything. Hurt him where it counts the most.”  
  
“We have to keep to the shadows,” said Carl.  He pondered a moment. “We can do that, though.”  
  
Anthony set the book aside and wrapped Carl in muscular arms. “It will be easier if we stay in the city.  Hide in plain sight. You probably want to keep up with your night school.  Maybe Brooklyn Tech.  No one will look for you there.”  
  
“If I go back to the other bed, will you come looking for me?”  
  
“Veni vidi,” said Anthony.  
  
“Vicimus,” said Carl.


End file.
